Joan in colour. An anon request.
It was the melancholy secret that reality can arouse desires but never satisfy them; that love begins with a human being but does not end in him; and that everything can be there: a human being, love, happiness, life and that in some terrible way it is always too little, and grows less the more it seems.
My father has never given me anything.
“Somebody very important to me died.”
“The only person in the world who really knew me.”
“That’s not true.”
“You’re a monster.”
Look, life is supposed to be a path, and you go along, and these things happen to you, and they’re supposed to change you, change your direction. But it turns out that’s not true. Turns out the experiences are nothing.